


Stuck With You

by mytholora



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/F, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Mutual Pining, One-sided Attraction to Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, stupid wlws is my brand
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:14:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23476042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytholora/pseuds/mytholora
Summary: Rhea is an archbishop. Shamir gets that. She’s been archbishop for a long time. Shamir doesn’t care. She gets paid for her work. That’s all that matters.“You and Byleth are to go undercover as newlyweds for an assassination mission.”Shamir tries really, really hard to ignore the new professor’s bright, shining eyes from across her. As long as she gets paid.
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Shamir Nevrand
Comments: 17
Kudos: 90





	Stuck With You

Sometimes Shamir wonders what goes through Rhea’s mind. What compels the saintly woman to make these decisions that almost has her regretting coming to Garegg Mach to pay back her debts.

Would a goddess-fearing individual do things that even the goddess herself would think twice about? Because this doesn’t seem like something Seiros would agree to, in her humble opinion.

Rhea has Seteth sit them down in his office for a full briefing about the specifications of the mission before she can even begin to protest anyway.

“He took the lives of some of our priests some months ago. He is a dangerous man and has, until now, covered his tracks well.”

Seteth says as Shamir leans forward to rest her elbows on her knees. Byleth flips through the thin report on their target quietly. "We do not know much else about him but we will provide information of his physical appearance from whatever little our spies have gathered."

_No visual, no trail. This isn’t going to be easy._

“Fortunately for us, we managed to track him down to a town near the adrestian capital. You are to go undercover as recently moved-in newlyweds and assassinate him when the time is right. Watch and wait. Memorise his routines. Send regular reports; there will be a courier waiting every three days for you.

“Base?” Shamir asks. 

“Necessary lodging and funds will be provided. It is essential that you remain inconspicuous. He is known to jump at the slightest hint of trouble, which is how he has escaped our grasp for this long.” She nods.

Byleth finally closes the report and looks up, “What constitutes newlywed activities?”

_What?_

“Um well,” Seteth blinks. “I suppose it would involve doing things together? As couples do.”

Shamir speaks up, “No offense to you or Rhea but I can handle this by myself.” The man sighs tiredly, posture releasing tension just the slightest.

“And I am aware you are capable enough, but Lady Rhea specifically requested that you two are to work together on this. I am not sure why, but I ask that you simply follow through with it.”

“What do couples do specifically?”

 _Poor man_ , Shamir thinks as a rising red crawls up his neck. He coughs and pulls at the high-collar of his garb nervously.

“W-well, some examples include, um, physical intimacy in public? As well as having a friendly demeanour with others and,” He glances at Shamir. “Each other. In my opinion, it would do you both a lot of good to spend more time together before heading out. It will help ease nerves and make you more natural when the time comes to play your roles.”

“Okay.” Byleth looks at Shamir dead in the eye. “So we should get intimate.” She watches as Seteth practically freezes in his seat. Byleth leans forward, “How far should we go?”

“Thank you, Seteth,” Shamir bids the green-haired man farewell and swiftly walks away, leaving Byleth waiting for an explanation and a flustered Seteth spluttering in the background. 

* * *

“There is no way this will work.”

Catherine barks out a laugh beside her, slamming her empty mug of ale on the counter. “Sure it will!” She glances up at the barkeeper with another grin and another fresh mug is set in front of her. “Have faith in Lady Rhea for once, why don’t ya?”

Shamir shakes her head when he turns to her and gestures to her own still half-empty mug. The tavern they frequent is, as always, dark, quiet and minds its own business which is why it’s her favourite.

“You only say that because you’re obligated under whatever knight oath you swore on to agree with Rhea’s orders.”

“It’s called loyalty- something only _knights_ understand.” Catherine snorts. “Lady Rhea’s always doing it for the greater good. I trust her.”

“I’m questioning, not for the first time, if you know what loyalty is or if you’re confusing it for something else.” Shamir says pointedly, swirling her drink as Catherine splutters beside her.

“Are you implying that I have inappropriate feelings for Lady Rhea?” The knight whispers, scandalised. Her drink almost spills over the top of her mug. “I would _never!_ Do I think about her healing me in her lap? Yes! And serving at her side for the rest of my life? Of course, but-”

“Hey, you said it, not me.” Shamir smirks. Her smile slips away. “Be honest with me. You really think this will work? I mean, go undercover as a couple? Who came up with _that_ idea? I can go by myself. And that new professor Bygeth-”

“Her name is Byleth.”

Shamir ignores her, choosing instead to play with and slosh the liquid in her mug. “-Why her? Doesn’t she have her hands full playing catch and kissing away boo-boos with those snot-nosed brats? I’m fully capable of doing this mission on my own.”

“I know just as much as anyone else. But you’re not the only one,” Catherine explains patiently. “She went on the Lonato mission with me and she’s worked with the rest of the faculty too. I hear she’s great to work with, if a bit quiet. Manuela likes her a lot, if that helps.”

Shamir snorts, taking another swig of her drink. “Sure.”

“I personally think she’ll work well with you.” Catherine snickers. “Both of you won’t talk if you can help it.”

“Great, I’m sure we’ll make _wonderful_ conversation. We’ll just sit and stare at each other all day. What a cute, newlywed thing to do. What will we even talk about? Our kill count?”

* * *

“I have downed at least 73 enemies.”

_You have got to be kidding me._

It was too early for this.

Her aura clearly read ‘Do Not Disturb Under Any Circumstances’ and the professor just ran over all the warning signs and plopped down in the dining hall seat across from her with a full plate of food and that seiros-damned stare.

“I’m busy. Go away.” Shamir coolly picks at her food.

“You’re eating alone.” She would have assumed the girl was being sarcastic but one look at that blank expression and Shamir knew that she was just like that. Blunt as a worn-down arrowhead.

“Yes. I’m busy eating alone. Beat it.”

“But being newlyweds means we eat together,” She has to bite the inside of her cheeks to keep from groaning. “This is practice.”

She chooses not to respond and continues eating. She can feel the weight of the professor’s stare on her, heavy and unflinching.

Slowly, her hands start moving as well and the silence between them is filled in with the clatter of utensils on plates and the background chatter of monks and students enjoying their meals. _What a great start_.

Shamir sighs, resigned.

“Ok look,” She didn't seem like she’d go away anytime soon. She may as well humour the girl while she’s here. “I don’t know you and you _better_ not know me either. So I will talk with you until my plate’s empty. Then I’m leaving.” 

The professor nods and pulls out a parchment and a quill to take notes. Shamir doesn’t question why or _how_ she’s carrying them around.

“We’ll take turns asking questions. Place of birth?”

The professor contemplates her answer for a few seconds, ”I don’t know.” Shamir raises a brow at that.

“Dagda. Your turn.”

“Okay. Are you attracted to women?”

_Wow._

“… if we’re newlyweds, of course I have to be.” She blinks and jots it down. She doesn’t answer her own question and Shamir doesn’t care enough to point it out.

She leans back in her seat. “Age?”

“I don’t know.”

“Good. That makes two of us.”

“What is your favourite food?”

“I’m not picky.”

The woman ponders over it for a second. “I don’t know mine yet.”

Shamir sighs, “Cats or dogs?”

“I can’t choose... I don’t know.” Hm.

“What are your favourite flowers?” She looks up from her parchment. Shamir forces herself not to look away from that piercing gaze.

“Sunflowers. Yours?”

“I don't know.”

“... Hobbies?”

“...I don't-”

“- know. Yeah, seeing a pattern here,” Shamir sighs frustratedly. “Look, I’m gonna need more than “I don't know”. Haven’t you ever dated or courted someone before?”

The blue-haired woman shakes her head, “No, I... had no interest before this.”

 _Had_ and the unspoken _until now_ are two things Shamir absolutely refuses to acknowledge.

She picks up her empty plate and stands up. “Whatever. Just don’t drag me down.”

_As long as she gets paid._

* * *

Shamir actively avoids her the next day, hiding away in the corner of the training grounds, hidden in the shadows, away from the morning sun.

She promises to teach Cyril intermediate archery techniques, _really shamir? Real archery? Not just picking up arrows and getting you your bow? Yes!_ and has him distract the professor whenever she gets too close to the area in general.

“Chin up, Shamir! She takes some time to warm up to ya but when she does, let me tell you, she’s an interesting one!”

“Never asked.” Shamir continues sharpening her arrows, not even pausing to acknowledge his presence.

Alois guffaws loudly next to her ear.

“I know, but she’s going around asking about you, so I thought it apt to give you some pointers too! I am a married man myself, you know.”

Oh and there it is again, the increasingly familiar sensation of a growing headache making its way up her temples.

She brings the point of her arrow under the older man’s chin in a flash. If this clown did something stupid like talk about her, ”If you said _anything_ Alois _,_ I swear-”

“Woah, woah calm down! Geez,” Alois puts his hands up in surrender, wisely backing away from the weapon. “I just told her to ask you herself. I’m not stupid enough to reveal information about you.”

Shamir scoffs.

“You really should start making an effort to spend time with her, you know. It’ll help. And who knows, maybe you’ll be friends after all this!”

“Hah,” she lets out a dry laugh, turns away and continues sharpening another arrow. “Now _that’s_ funny.”

* * *

“Those huge knockers can really do something to a girl’s brain.” Manuela sighs wistfully.

She blinks once, twice. “What?”

It was a simple task: collect vulneraries from the infirmary. Instead, she encountered a half-drunk, half-dead Manuela slouched over and crying at her desk.

_“It’s barely noon.”_

_“S’fine,” Manuela says, slightly slurring. “No one comes at this hour. No one ever does. Just like the knight last night-!”_

“You know, knockers,” Manuela lazily gestures to her chest, grabbing one in each hand. Shamir glances down reflexively and immediately looks back up. “Her jugs. Fruits of life. Honkers. The Girls.”

“... _Breasts_.” Manuela rolls her eyes.

“ _Seiros_ , you’re both prudes. “ _Breasts?_ ”” The healer parrots back mockingly. “How are you going to screw each other if you can’t even be creative with your language?”

“One: We’re not going to hook up. Two: I’m not a prude, you’re just crude.” Shamir says, plucking the half-empty bottle of rum from Manuela’s hands. “Or maybe that’s the alcohol talking.”

Manuela wails into her hands. “I’m so _lonely!_ ”

“Yeah, definitely the alcohol. Look, it’s unprofessional to hook up during missions.”

The healer abruptly stops crying and looks up at her. “Can I have her then?”

Shamir ignores her and puts the bottle away before shuffling over to the secret compartment Manuela has specifically to help with sobering up and hangovers.

“I’m just trying to help, you know that.” Manuela sighs.

“You are doing the complete opposite,” she puts the cup of water and dumps a concoction vial and some herbs in Manuela’s palm. “And there is nothing _to_ help.”

“See? You’re so good at taking care of other people. Why won’t you let someone take care of you?”

“Because I don’t need someone to take care of me.” She sets about collecting the vulneraries she came to get, suddenly dreading the conversation with every slurred word that leaves the older woman’s mouth.

Manuela pops the herbs in her mouth and gulps down the concoction in one gulp. “Catherine told me how you reacted when you got the mission. You usually don’t care who you’re partnered with. What’s so different this time?”

“It’s not. I don’t care. You and Catherine need to stop gossiping about the lives of others and focus on yourselves; you both have enough problems to last a lifetime. I’m fine on my own.”

“Shamir.”

She pauses and looks over her shoulder. Manuela’s eyes are slightly glazed over but they shine with burning compassion. She hates it when the older woman gets like this- like she cares. Like she ‘s worried about her.

Like Shamir is important to her- to all of them.

“Really, I’m fine.”

“You’re not alone this time, are you? And it’s not with Catherine either.” Manuela says as Shamir walks out the infirmary. “You’re going to have to learn to open up those walls again someday!”

* * *

Hanneman walks up to her later that evening. “...Shamir,”

“Don’t.”

“Thank you,” he sighs in relief and makes his exit.

* * *

She likes children. She doesn’t explicitly tell anyone about it, not even Catherine, but she enjoys spending time with them.

Watching them play in the marketplace, scurrying over to her when she comes by to hand around sweets and share stories of her adventures is something she indulges regularly. She knows, if it wasn’t for her occupation, she’d have one or two. Children make her feel warm inside.

“So, you are the woman dating our professor.”

This tiny red _dwarf_ in front of her does the opposite.

Oh, she knows who this kid is. The future emperor of the Adrestian empire, the next heir to its throne, Edelgard von Hresvelg. And the black mass of a dying willow tree next to her is her retainer - the Vestra boy. She doesn't care enough to remember. _Noble names. A mouthful every time. Wait, dating?_

“Shamir,” Byleth appears from the doorway of the black eagle classroom, a gaggle of students trailing closely behind, looking at her in what she can only assume to be surprise. Well, as much surprise as can be expressed on that face, which frankly speaking, isn’t much. “What are you doing here… honey?”

_What?_

“My teacher,” The princess’s expression softens almost instantly when she walks up to them. “There you are.”

“ _Honey?_ ” Incredulity bleeds into her voice. She pulls the professor to one side and whispers sharply, “What's going on? What’s with the pet name?”

“I thought it would make us feel more natural if people thought we were together.” Shamir thinks that maybe she is going to kill someone.

“My teacher,” Hresvelg’s voice puts an end to their private conversation. “I assume she is here to meet you. We will give you two your privacy.”

Shamir looks between the professor and this very serious, increasingly hostile pipsqueak. Byleth steps away and puts her hand on Hresvelg’s shoulder.

“No, it’s alright. There’s nothing to hide from any of you. Especially you, Edelgard.” The white-haired girl blushes pink and smiles at her professor.

The rest of the class are torn between ignoring their teacher and classmate and awkwardly looking at Shamir, their professor’s… _something_ , who is standing there, watching (what Shamir now realises is clearly considered to be) an ordinary interaction take place.

“My teacher… thank you. Your words mean more to me than you could ever imagine.”

Oh. _Oh._

“So you told your students about us? And here I thought you’d want to wait it out before announcing it to the world, _dear_.” The words make her throw up in her throat a little but the swift change from charmed schoolgirl to sharp glare of the future Adrestian Emperor is worth it. Byleth frowns.

“Yes. Like I said. I thought it would help-”

“Right, dear.” Shamir quickly interrupts to prevent Byleth from outing them 5 minutes into their role-play.

She usually doesn’t have the patience to tolerate this wyvern-shit or drama in general but she’s entertained and she really wants to watch how this carriage-wreck of a circus disguised as a class will play along with her antics. 

“Wait, so you two really are dating?” the blue-haired boy _are all her students half-human half-dwarf? Why are they all so short?_ Caspar, she recalls, points a finger at her suspiciously. “Professor’s with us all-day everyday! When did she have time to meet you?”

_He walked right into that one._

“She may be with you everyday, but she has me every night,” Shamir smirks, fully enjoying the angry, flustered blush on Hresvelg’s face and the quiet laughter of some of the Black Eagle students.

Byleth opens her mouth to say something but a hard stare from Shamir has it closed instantly.

“Ms Nevrand, that is absolutely inappropriate. I request that you do not make such comments out loud.”

“Oh, lighten up Edie. They're two consenting adults! They can do whatever they want, daytime activities or otherwise.” A brown-haired girl wearing a hat nudges Hresvelg with a wink, sending the younger girl into a loud, scandalised gasp. Shamir laughs.

“What’s your name?”

“Dorothea Arnault at your service. You may have heard of me from the Mittlefrank Opera Company?”

“Ah, Manuela’s kid,” She makes a mental note to remember it. “I like you.”

The singer grins, bowing gracefully. “I aim to please.”

“Anyway, Lady Hresvelg, your professor and I are adults and frankly what we get up to is no one’s business but ours.”

“She is taunting you on purpose, Lady Edelgard,” the eyebrow-less Vestra boy suddenly steps forward and hisses. “It would be wise for you to watch your tongue. You are talking to the next emperor of-”

“Yes, royalty, I get it,” Hubert glares at her even more, something she didn’t think was possible. “I’ll pass on the lecture. Thanks.”

“I like her,” A thin, pretty boy with long, green hair says.

“Professor, I am liking her as well,” the Brigidian princess, Petra, she remembers, smiles brightly. “She is having a… what do you call it? A sensing of humour.”

“It’s ‘sense of humour’, Petra,” Dorothea corrects her gently.

Caspar yells, pumping his fist excitedly, “Who cares about that- Let’s spar!”

“Well, for once, I agree with Hubert.” A tall, pompous boy with a stick up his ass says stiffly. Shamir resists the urge to roll her eyes. “Edelgard is a noble, the heir to the Adrestian throne. She deserves to be spoken to with more respect than that.”

Dorothea shoves him aside and the boy goes stumbling away with an undignified squawk. “I think it’s romantic! Oh, to be two female mercenaries in love with each other… I think it could make quite a fascinating story, don’t you think so, Bernie? …Bernie?”

The small, mousey girl is on the floor hunched over a parchment, eyes bloodshot and muttering things wildly under her breath.

“Uh, professor? Bernadetta’s doing it again!” Byleth turns and quickly tends to her shaking student, who is now scribbling furiously into said parchment.

“Anyway,” Hresvelg clears her throat. “I have to ask that you leave as we wish to focus on our training and I do not wish for any of us to be distracted.”

Byleth pulls away from her student and looks up at Shamir. “Do you want to stay and watch?”

“My teacher?!”

“Can’t. I’m running some errands for Seteth. Just happened to pass by when your student here called out to me.” Shamir holds out the documents in her hand.

“Oh, okay.” Nope, that is not disappointment that Shamir can hear in her voice. And she most definitely can’t see the way Byleth slumps over a little, eyes flitting to the ground at her rejection. 

She doesn’t want to but she remembers Catherine and Manuela and Alois and what they said to her yesterday. She sighs heavily, closing her eyes and bracing herself for what she’s about to say.

“I’ll... be at the training grounds training Cyril tomorrow. Maybe I’ll see you then.” Byleth’s posture straightens.

“Noted. tomorrow, then.”

“Bye, kids. Bye _honey._ ” She throws in as she leaves, laughing under her breath at the way Hresvelg stiffens. Byleth bows her head the slightest bit, as if bashful. Whatever.

* * *

The grounds are empty when Shamir’s there in the afternoon with Cyril, watching the boy’s arms shake as he pulls his bowstring and aims for the target. He releases and misses the bullseye by a hair’s breadth.

“Your form’s sloppy,” She says. “And you’re not pulling hard enough. Put more strength into it. Feet apart, back straight.”

Cyril is strangely quiet, different from how he’d usually react when Shamir comments on his form; frustrated and grumbling under his breath, stomping over to pick up his arrows to try again.

Today’s Cyril is obedient and brooding. It almost unnerves her. Something’s not right. She’s not used to asking him about his feelings - she’s not his _mom._ But she _is_ the kid’s mentor right? She has a responsibility to find out what’s wrong. _Yeah, okay._

“Cyril? Something bothering you?” She cringes before she even finishes her question. _Ugh._

“... Are you marrying that new lady professor?” He asks, and her saliva goes down the wrong pipe.

Cyril stands in front of her, hands fiddling with his bow behind his back and shifting nervously on the spot as he waits for Shamir to stop coughing and pull herself together.

“No, I’m not. Who told you that?”

He shakes his head. “No one.”

“Then where did _her marrying me_ come from?” Again, he refuses to answer. Shamir gets down on one knee to get on his eye level. She asks softly, “What’s wrong? I won’t get mad.”

She waits patiently for Cyril to ponder his next words, taking his bow away from his grasp and holding his fingers in her hand.

“It’s not like I don’t like her. She’s fine and strong and cool and all but… Lady Rhea likes her a lot. It’s not fair if she gets you too.”

Oh.

Shamir laughs, “Trust me kid,” she ruffles his hair affectionately. “She’s not _getting_ me. Besides, you have more things to worry about than my love life, like your sloppy form. Get your arrows and go again."

 _"Shamir!"_ he whines, though she doesn't miss the grin that blooms on his face.

* * *

An hour later, the training ground doors groan open and sure enough, Byleth and her ducklings waddle in, just as she’s about done correcting her young apprentice on his form. The younger woman looks around and when her eyes land on Shamir, she almost swears they light up. She glances away as they make their way to her.

“Hello.”

“Hi.” Shamir turns to Cyril, who is giving Byleth a hard stare and puffing out his chest in a poor attempt to intimidate the blue-haired woman, who simply stares him down, though not out of hostility.

“Cyril, we’re done for today. Clean up and you can go.” He ignores her, stepping forward instead.

“Professor," he says sternly. "If you wanna marry Shamir, you gotta get through me first!”

Shamir damn near smacks her face with her hand as Byleth cocks her head, a question mark practically hanging over her head. Her students suddenly look either very alarmed or very entertained.

“I don’t think you can defeat me.” She says it like she’s stating a fact and well, she’s not _wrong_ but it only serves to piss Cyril off even more. “You are welcome to try.”

“ _What did you say?!_ ”

Shamir sighs. She’s been doing that a lot in the past two days.

“Just go, Cyril.”

He walks away, still not breaking eye contact with Byleth even as he trips over the threshold in the doorway on his way out.

“Professor, you didn’t tell us you were getting married!” Dorothea squeals mischievously as Hresvelg pales and wobbles unsteadily on her feet. Vestra and Noble Boy are already at her side, supporting her. Petra claps her hands happily.

“I have never been attending a Fodlan marriage before! Are we being invited to it?”

“Linhardt and I want front-row seats so we can throw the petals! I’m a great petal-thrower!” Caspar yells excitedly. Bernadetta is clutching at her chest, Linhardt hovering at her side on standby in the event she collapses, which at this point seems fairly likely.

“Do not be ridiculous. The professor is not getting married.” Vestra scoffs and Hresvelg steadies herself, colour returning to her face.

“ _Are_ you, my teacher?”

“I am not.” Byleth looks at her. “Are we?”

“ _No_ , we’re not.” She picks up her bow and arrow and brushes the dirt off her knees, already tired from the shenanigans of the group. “Now, did you guys come here to train or make a ruckus? Get your weapons and show me what you’ve got.”

* * *

She has to admit, she’s impressed (though she won’t ever say it out loud).

Byleth is a very skilled jack of all trades, easily shifting from one weapon to another and remarkably attentive and patient with her students. She instructs and commands them like she’s on the battlefield, pointing out their mistakes calmly and providing solutions.

Shamir steps in every once in a while, coaching the timid mouse girl, Bernadetta, with her archery. Despite all her cowardice, the girl’s got a hidden talent with the bow just waiting to be polished. She looks over at the rest of the brats.

Vestra is threatening the green-haired pretty boy, who looks like he could just about fall asleep on the ground right there and then.

Dorothea, despite her playfulness, turns into another person as soon as she starts. Her face is steeled with determination and Shamir can tell she works the hardest among all of them. Or maybe she’s just biased, being the only one who isn’t a noble there.

_And maybe because they share the same voice actor. What?_

Hresvelg and Caspar are sparring with their training axes, Byleth supervising them while Noble Boy is trying to explain what seems to be an advanced lance technique to Petra.

She watches all this and despite everything, she can recognise good teamwork and hard work when she sees it. Her opinion of them goes up just a bit.

“This was fun.” Byleth says, looking just as fresh as she did before training, juxtaposed by the collapsed, sweat-drenched forms of her students. “We should do it again.”

“Hm. We’ll see.”

Hresvelg looks at her with what might be begrudging respect or maybe that’s just what exhaustion looks like on Adrestian royalty. “Thank you for your guidance today, Miss Nevrand; your help was much appreciated. But I’m sure you must be busy with your own work. We will be fine on our own with the professor.”

“It’s fine. My schedule’s free enough that I’ll be picking your professor up after class from now on. So we have lots of time to be acquainted.”

“That is not necessary at all.”

“I insist, _Lady Hresvelg_. It’s the least I can do for my lover.”

Hresvelg is glowering at this point and Byleth is completely oblivious to all this happening around her, busy helping Bernadetta, who has gone into another bout of delusional scribbling, again.

This is the most entertainment she’s had in years and honestly, it almost makes the original purpose of this whole situation a little more bearable. _The mission, right_.

“Come on, dear,” she says sweetly, not-so-subtly hooking her arm around Byleth’s own and pulling her close, watching with amusement as the white-haired student’s eyes follow the action. “We’ll be late for our dinner reservation.”

“The dining hall doesn’t take reservations.” Byleth says and Shamir drags her away before she blurts out anything else.

She has a feeling embarrassment is going to be an emotion she'll be increasingly familiar with in the foreseeable future.

“Your class is... interesting,” she says as they start making their way towards the dining hall. “Though next time, tell me before you tell others. I was not prepared to get jumped by the angry toddler and your posse of brats yesterday.”

“Angry toddler?”

“Hresvelg.”

Oh, Edelgard. I don’t think she’s a toddler. And she wasn’t angry.” Byleth says and Shamir has to bite down a laugh.

“Then we were either looking at two different people or you are the most oblivious person I’ve ever met.”

Byleth waves at a male student passing by. He stares at them with wide eyes and Shamir realises that their arms are still hooked together. She quickly takes a step away to put some distance between them. Byleth stares at her and she keeps her gaze to the front.

“Shamir. Are we friends?”

“We’re colleagues.”

“Oh, okay.” Byleth says. They continue walking. “I would like to be your friend. If you want.”

She doesn’t respond to that as Byleth opens the door to the dining hall.

* * *

They talk mercenary work, mostly. It’s the only thing they have in common.

“How’d you end up as one?”

“My father. I followed him on some of his assignments when I was younger. Naturally became one when I grew older. You?”

Shamir shrugs, “Long story.”

“I am not going anywhere.” Byleth’s voice is serious and genuine and she can’t pretend to ignore the faint, muted flare of _something_ that blooms in her chest. She looks up and blue eyes meet her own brown ones.

“Long, _complicated_ story.” _Drop it._

Neither of them are talkers so when the conversation then inevitably tapers off, they sit in what would usually be considered as awkward silence, if it weren’t for the fact that Shamir does not care and Byleth does not understand the concept of ‘awkward’.

They are, however, on a mission. They are... partners (though not by choice) and Shamir isn’t one to let personal feelings actually get in the way of doing her job. She’s a professional. So if she _has_ to work together with the woman sitting in front of her, she will.

“We need rules if we’re gonna pull this off.” Byleth agrees easily. So they make a set of rules each:

Shamir’s rules:

  1. Do not talk about sex in public.
  2. Do not talk in general.
  3. Do not ask stupid questions. If need be, write it down to ask Seteth.
  4. No touching anything that isn’t Shamir’s hands. She will cut you if you do.



_What if you are mortally wounded and require aid?_

_Leave me to die._

  1. Always leave the base together. It’ll help them familiarise their environment and it’s safer for them both.



Byleth’s rules:

  1. They can call each other pet names



_We will not._

  1. Shamir has to teach her how to cook Dagdan cuisine



_I will not._

  1. Take turns cooking
  2. Go grocery shopping together
  3. Get a cat



“This is a mission. We are not eloping.” Shamir presses her fingers against her temple, trying to soothe the faint throb of a headache coming on. She uncorks the small rum bottle she keeps on her person and takes a small gulp out of it.

“I thought alcohol wasn’t allowed in the monastery.”

“It’s not. Snagged it from Manuela. She owed me.” Byleth looks almost apprehensive at that as she watches Shamir take another swig. “Want some?”

“I don’t drink.”

Shamir hums. “Can’t or won’t?”

Byleth shakes her head. “I am physically incapable of being drunk.”

“Oh. Why?”

“There is a small girl with God powers living in my head and she flushes out any alcohol I drink after I had my first hangover after meeting her because she said it was annoying so I don’t want to make her mad anymore.”

“... Okay.” Shamir decides she does not want to unpack all that and takes another swig from her bottle.

“...Won’t Lady Rhea be upset if she catches you?”

“You think someone like Rhea doesn’t knock it back every once in a while?”

Byleth blinks once. “What does she knock back?”

Shamir groans.

“This is gonna be a _long_ mission.”

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to AD for beta reading this and helping out (hugs u tight)
> 
> Shoutout to allie8422 on twitter for being so generous (hugs u tight also)!
> 
> For the 15 bymir shippers out there here’s your food: some rice with egg and soy sauce yum love that!!


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